My hatred for track and field ran so deep that as a teenager I would regularly pray for things like a plague of raining frogs so that I could miss gym class and the horror of learning how to high jump, hurl a shot put and — worst of all — run in front of my classmates.
Her pianos vanished in gutteral whispers; her high notes, hurled out with vehemence, often fell short of their mark.
Raised by Wolves occupies the same grotesque, sexually thwarted, English low ground as Julia Davis's Nighty Night or most Mike Leigh (not for nothing is Grampy played by Philip Jackson, who I remember as a reptilian businessman in Leigh's High Hopes, hurling his sheepskin car coat on the pretentious settee as a sexual overture to his no-less-unspeakable wife).
A little caressing of the ankle, and suddenly the hooting and hollering of a particularly loud patron is replaced by a high-heel, hurled like a ninja star at the man's forehead.
She can glide through high melismas and hurl accusations; she flirts, she growls and she preaches.
Their roots reach deep inside the Earth, and their fruits are hurled high into the atmosphere.
They didn't just shove Albert Haynesworth and his cartful of emotional baggage off the high board, they hurled Chad Ochocinco in there after him.
Breaking out of the facility, he rampages through Las Vegas, smashing hotel windows on high floors and hurling trees and cars at gawkers.
The Milky Way, they note, is dominated by M dwarf stars: violent, unpredictable suns that frequently hurl high-energy particles and solar flares into space.
G.Money told me he'd been electrocuted and had high-speed trains hurl past his face and that he'd known people who'd been killed while painting but that the danger never turns anyone off.
